


You Took the Stars from My Eyes

by BabyPinkPuppy



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: F/M, Hurt T'Challa (Marvel), Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 13:32:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16995945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyPinkPuppy/pseuds/BabyPinkPuppy
Summary: He shouldn't feel this way. It'd been a long time. And he doesn't know why he's just laying there while they—He swallowed thickly, his Adam's Apple bobbing up and down from the action. He unconsciously pressed his fingers to the nape of his neck, where they— he—left the bruise. Among many more.Tears leapt into his eyes, and he ignored the worried gazes his family casted. The way their eyebrows would furrow and expressions would twist into deep concern.It is not their fault. It is his.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first Black Panther story. I know I have a Spidey story to work on but this has been on my mind for a while now. I promise I'll try and work on it but a girl can only do so much.
> 
> Also, just to clear things up, N'Jadaka and N'Jobu are well and alive. T'Chaka is still dead but he makes brief cameos. Nobody is evil and dead except for the fuckers who hurt our favorite black kitty.

He didn't know why he felt this way, T'Challa thought, as he strolled down by the busy, heavy streets of California. He made sure to keep a low profile, head bowed, eyes glued to the concrete floor, and his hands buried in the pockets of the thick sweater he wore.

He purposely ignored the watchful, prying eyes of his General.

He was supposed to be at a meeting; he knew that. Knew that, ever since Baba's death, he had to take the role of king more seriously. Be there for his mother and uncle when they discussed budgets and such. Take care of his country, his people.

He swallowed down bile.

Okoye, observant as ever, eyed him with something akin to concern. "Are you alright, my king?" she murmured, gracefully dodging a street vendor on wheels. T'Challa lifted his gaze for a split second, revealing the red, watery eyes that displayed his exhaustion. Exhaustion of not sleeping. Of laying awake at night. Curled into a tight, sweaty ball.

He ignored the acid sunk into his eyes.

"Of course," he smiled, lying through his teeth. "Why wouldn't I be?" he hummed, his strides quick and graceful, like the agile cat he was, as Stark so eloquently put it.

Okoye narrowed her eyes for a split second. He can tell; she does not believe, and he could not blame her. It is not her fault he was struggling, trying to fight through it. Just...trying to forget about it.

The sun was warm on his skin, the layered sounds of a band playing down by an expensive restaurant blasting through the speakers. It jarred his skin, reminding him...

He shook his head; no time for that. He had a cousin to pick up.

* * *

"Hey, you sure you don't want some aspirin or somethin'?" N'Jadaka asked, throwing down his bags onto his bed, his brows furrowed together as he eyed T'Challa. "You ain't lookin' so hot..."

T'Challa rolled his eyes with a small smile, "I see you are still observant as ever," he quipped.

N'Jadaka smirked back. "I'm a War Dog, cuz. That's a requirement."

"I'm fine," T'Challa reassured, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he moved to exit. He excused himself, trying to ignore the itching burn he felt scraping at his skin. Where coarse textures of fingers would poke and prod, ignoring with little ease when he heard laughter booming inside his head.

He pretended not to notice N'Jadaka's wary, suspicious eyes.

When the king entered his bedroom, he leaned against the wall, clamping his eyes shut.

* * *

The touch is searing. Burning. Like coals seeping into the soft, dark skin. Marring.

T'Challa's heavy breathing filled the room; his lungs felt as if they were being crushed, like he was drowning in the ocean and he couldn't swim his way out. He choked when a rough, meaty hand gripped the back of his short, tight curls.

"Stop struggling or I'll make it hurt."

Make it hurt? How was that even possible? It already hurt and T'Challa wanted— _needed for them to stop. Oh Bast, please stop please stop—Baba where are you?_

A set of hands gripped his hips in a white-knuckled grip, and a groan emitted from his chest as it heaved. Humiliation danced across his expression, his face twisting and crumpling as if he had been shot.

He didn't know if the water cascading down his cheeks were the heavy droplets of the rain or the stinging tears that swelled his eyes pink.

He had to swallow down an earth shattering scream when he felt the man thrust himself inside. It stretched and burned and a dizzying pain spiraled down his spine. He shivered when he felt a hand stroke his shaft.

"That's it; that's a good little kitten," the man's thick accent cooed, as if he were speaking to a house cat itself.

T'Challa's face burned.

He rolled his hips without thinking, his ass settling down on the man's wrinkled thighs. Mortification was swollen hotly in his belly. He was the protector of Wakanda, how on earth could he let this be happening?! Why wasn't he stopping this? Why couldn't he—

He moaned.

The man chuckled, and T'Challa could feel his chest vibrate against his back. Suddenly, a rough hand smacked one of his cheeks, and T'Challa cried out in surprise and pain ad the torture increased tenfold.

"Move," the man bit out, his thrusts becoming more rapid.

T'Challa wanted to glare. Wanted to spin his head around and tell the man no. Grab him the by the arm and tear it off that pathetic body of his. Let him have it the second time to even a man more ruthless than Ultron.

T'Challa showed no mercy for monsters.

But he couldn't do that, he knew. Knew that he could not push the man away, despite the pain he had caused his people many years ago. That, despite the fact that he saw his cousin shoot the man in the head when T'Challa froze, he was always going to be there. A parasite in his mind.

When did T'Challa let it go too far?

His pride diminishing, shoving down a broken sob, T'Challa wheezed. Lifted his hips, wincing when the thrusts grew more aggressive. More savage. And he dipped his head down to the ground, his feverish skin brushing against the cool, pristine marble floors. He hissed when he felt another jolt, unable to stifle down the sob that wracked his body when he realized the pleasure was settling in.

His toes curled when he felt the paper-like hand jerk him off.

He dug his nails into the floor, into the rough, yet soft material of the maroon carpet his mother had bought for him. His knees felt sore when he felt the man _thrust and thrust and thrust—_

Oh Bast. Was he dying?

Beads of sweat rolled down his skin. Pleasure and agony settled deep within the pit of his stomach. Fingernails clamped down the skin of his thighs and he groaned. Gritted out a rough, throaty sob.

Klaue laughed.

* * *

Morning came, as did he in the nightmare, and he laid in his bed. He was bare as the day he was born, having just gotten out of the shower the night before.

His arms and legs were spread out, heat emanating between his legs, much to his horror and embarrassment.

The servants knocked, persistent, his cousin's and uncle's strained pleas to be let in. That they hada the Tribal Council waiting for him. It is not like them to beg, so he must've daydreamed longer than he thought.

He stared blankly at the ceiling, the scent of sweat thick in the room, and he calmly closed his eyes for a moment. He listened to the sounds. The hum of the air conditioning, the beat of the drums down by the Border Tribe, and the soft creak of the door as the soundless footsteps entered. The door shut and locked.

He felt the limited space beside him dip, and then a soft, warm blanket was draped over his naked form. A hand cupped his cheek, the skin so soft and so cold. Nothing like the fever he had.

"T'Challa," Nakia whispered, her eyes warm and glazed with love, her voice so gentle and kind. She tried to coax him out of his daze, saying they had matters to attend to.

He heard her. Heard every word everyone had to say. Heard taunting and mockery staining his mind, his being. Heard the grunts and guttural groans heaving Klaue's chest when he rammed inside his ass.

It hurt.

She begged him to look at her, asking what was wrong.

He was just...

It _hurt._

 

 

 


	2. And Burned Them with Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was drowning in ecstasy, swimming in the deep, searing depths of the lava that had tainted his skin. His knees ached, the skin on the flat of his palms stung like hell.
> 
> Blood rolled down his ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just plain porn with angst.

He rolled onto his side, his cheek smashed against the fluffy pillow, and he bit back the groan when his stomach twisted. Nakia had left hours ago, another War Dog mission back in Nigeria. She'd asked if he would be alright for the next couple of months, a teasing smile on her lips. He had nodded his head, plastering what he hoped was a convincing smile.

He didn't have to ask if she didn't believe him.

T'Challa shut his eyes, pressing his lips into a thin, straight line as he fought the headache that brushed across his skull. It was as if someone had stuffed cotton in his ears and brain, stifling his thoughts and he couldn't think for himself. He gripped the blanket tighter, his knuckles paling from how hard he was clutching the fabric. It felt like summer in his bedroom, and sweat glistened his body. 

To his shame, the heat between his legs had not left.

He tried to keep his breathing even, tried to fall into a dreamless sleep, but Bast had not been so kind to him lately. Sometimes he wondered if Bast was ever kind to him at all.

He shivered.

* * *

Wide, frightened eyes locked onto steely greys. Small hands planted firmly on the man's chest as he tried to shove him away. He cried out when those set of hands gripped his hips.

He had snuck off from his guards. He knew he wasn't supposed to, but he was too curious about visiting the mound. Baba was back in the palace, in the middle of a Tribal Council meeting. Besides, he had figured, maybe his guards wouldn't notice. They thought he was just taking an extra long shower.

How wrong they were.

He was clad in nothing but his boxers now, bemused as to why this strange American was up in the mound. He had tried to run, screaming, but then his hand clamped over his mouth and he was pulled backwards, screams cut off.

"You're not going anywhere, my Prince," the man had sneered, a sick, twisted smile curling his cracked lips. T'Challa had struggled, attempted everything he could, but he had to slump and give in, fighting back tears.

Hands brushed over the hem of his boxers, and his skin warmed when he felt them being pulled down, exposing him to the frigid air of the mound. He kicked, humiliation heavy in his glazed eyes as the man—

("Klaue," he'd said, a slow, drunken grin plastered.)

—tossed his underwear away.

T'Challa trembled, goosebumps prickling the fresh skin worn over his bones as the terror settled in. He tried to remain stoic, just like his father, and tries to be brave. He was going to be king, after all.

Klaue's weight felt like he was being pinned by a boulder, and his finger, the skin rough and calloused, ran a small circle over his nipple. T'Challa whimpered, his chest heaving at the odd sensation it brought him. Something warm vibrated between his legs, and he clamped his thighs together as he tried his best to force his mind to play dead.

To his horror, Klaue was already naked as he.

"You're so beautiful, kitten," he whispered, his breath hot as he sunk his teeth into the shell of T'Challa's ear. The young boy squeezed his eyes shut, trembling violently. "You're lookin' more like your old man everyday."

T'Challa choked down on a sob when he felt Klaue bury his head into the nape of his neck, a groan emitting from the man as he lapped at the skin. His hand was toying with his nipples, and to T'Challa's mortification, he realized his nipples felt hard, harder than they should be. His body locked up when he felt Klaue's other hand travel lower, wrapping his fingers around his shaft. T'Challa opened his mouth to scream, but Klaue must've anticipated his move and used the hand that was playing with his left nipple to slap it down onto his parted lips. He felt the man's erection against his thigh, and tears bubbled from his eyelids when he realized he was hard himself.

What was wrong with him?

Breathy moans filled the empty air, mingled with T'Challa's stifled groans as the man rolled his hips. His head pulled away from his neck, and T'Challa met his gaze. Klaue's eyes were hooded, heavy with lust, pupils dilated as he traveled lower. He drifted his mouth to his jaw, to his neck, leaving a trail of kisses that were supposed to be sweet, but they felt like coals on his skin. They suctioned every bit of his skin so greedily. He slid his tongue over T'Challa's nipple, and he hadn't realized how warm he felt as the action brought a satisfying chill. He softly whimpered, the first of several.

Klaue licked and toyed with firm morsel until it was smooth, and he pulled away with a pop. T'Challa flinched, and then Klaue moved over to the other one to pay it equal attention. He traveled lower, reaching his navel. He dipped his warm tongue in, and T'Challa nearly burst, kicking his legs and thrashing into Klaue squeezed his cock. He bit the inside of his cheek, staring up at the ceiling with watery eyes, trying to ignore, ignore, ignore—

Klaue moaned.

Klaue fell down between his legs, stroking his shaft as the tip of his finger grazed the slit of his cock. A shiver spiraled, goosebumps tickling his skin, and T'Challa breathed. Blood spilled from the cut he gave himself, and he swallowed the copper-tainted saliva.

Fire spread across his entire body, lighting his blood afire the more Klaue greedily sucked on his dick. The pace was becoming faster, and T'Challa felt an odd, horrifying sense of pleasure washing over him as he draped his legs over the man's back.

His mind spun, and he wished he could have his body react like stone.

Whimpers spilled from his lips, and he didn't realize he was crying when he was turned over his stomach, feeling the wetness spill. Cum dripped from his shaft, much to his surprise and embarrassment. He planted his hands firmly on the cold, hard ground, still in shock from what had just happened moments ago. What did this man want from him? Why was he hurting him? What did he want?

"I want you, kitten."

Oh Bast. Now he was voicing his thoughts aloud.

T'Challa's heart pounded in his ears, thrumming wildly in his ribcage as he tried to regain his momentum and stand, but his legs were shaky and if felt like that time he and N'Jadaka swung across the vines in the jungle.

T'Challa yelped when he felt Klaue smack one his ass cheeks. The action stung and burned, and heat crept to the tips of his ears. More tears streamed, and he could feel the man behind him position himself behind the little boy. He bit back another shout that threatened to leave when his knees scraped against the rough surface of the pavement, and something that felt heavy and odd hovered in his cracks.

Without warning, his cheeks spread apart, and Klaue snapped his hips.

Crack.

T'Challa gasped, fish out of water, as a cry left him. Tears leapt into his eyes at the unfamiliar stretch and burn, and he gritted his teeth. This felt like he was being ripped in two, and Klaue picked up the speed and T'Challa couldn't think as stars exploded across his vision.

The hours dragged on like and T'Challa's muscles spasmed wildly in a futile attempt to get away. But Klaue held his hips in a bruising grip and he found himself rolling his hips in tune with Klaue's.

Bast, what was _happening_ to him?


	3. Oh, My Sweet Angels, Where Have You Gone?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He paced back and forth in the chamber. It was the king's personal floor in the palace, one that belonged to his father and his ancestors who were king before him. It gave him a relief of the nostalgia, one he would indulge happily.
> 
> He ignored the piercing stare his mother was burning him with.
> 
> She stood, and made long, graceful strides over to him, and he couldn't help but pause. His shoulders were rigid as he turned halfway to meet her calm, concerned gaze.
> 
> "My little boy," she whispered, cupping his cheek in her palm. "What is wrong?"
> 
> He closed his eyes.

T'Challa jolted awake as he sprung up from the bed, breathing heavily. The atmosphere in the room felt thick and heavy, like he was back in the heavy waters of the oceans back in the Border Tribe village. Beads of sweat rolled down his brows and his chest heaved, the cold breeze prickling his feverish skin as he closed his eyes, trying to regain his bearings.

He swallowed thickly, sniffing as he lifted his hand and wiped the fresh tears away.

He hated how vulnerable he felt at that moment. How his limbs felt like jelly and how disoriented he felt. It was so unlike him. He was taught to be swift, agile, and ready for the next strike. The unpredictability had always bothered him.

Especially when it came to him.

It was so long ago, he didn't even know how he could still remember it so vividly. He was only ten when... _it_ happened.

T'Challa dropped his head in his hands, loathing how his limbs shivered and how the beat of his heart skyrocketed. He just...needed a moment.

A knock echoed in the room, and then he heard the creak of the door opening as someone shut it again.

"T'Challa?"

He didn't acknowledge the quiet, timbre whisper of his mother as she sat down beside him, her hand carefully landing on his shoulder. "T'Challa, are you alright?" she asked again, worry in her tone.

He tried to calm his pounding heart, counting to ten in his head like he'd always done in the past. It helped at times, not as much as he'd like, though. Eventually, too long for his liking, he lifted his face from his palms and met her gaze, and pulled on a fake, yet convincing smile.

"Yes," he said, just as quietly as her. "I am fine. Why do you ask?"

His mother frowned. "T'Challa," she said patiently. "It is past morning, my son."

He blinked in surprise, his brows tugging together as he turned his head to his window. Bast, how could he have been so obvious? His room had one of the best views of the brilliant sun rises in Wakanda. The sky was a pale, yet bright blue, the clouds puffy as usual as they overlapped each other. And the sun, bright as ever, shone over the country and acted as a warm blanket of golden rays throughout the entire cities.

It was so peaceful, and so joyful, but he felt so gloomy and grey inside.

"Oh," he dumbly muttered, running a hand over his face. "My apologies, Mother. I'll be down in the throne room in a minute."

His mother was quick to reply, "The Council Meeting has already been adjourned."

He snapped his head to her. "What? Why?" he demanded, though his words were harsher than he intended. 

"Your uncle thought it best if you were to rest a little while longer," Ramonda smoothly replied. "You haven't slept much these past few days."

T'Challa frowned; he was all to familiar with this tactic. It was the same his father and uncle N'Jobu administered shortly after...it happened. While neither, or anyone else for that matter, knew what happened, they knew the young prince was in a melchony phase. His inner turmoil showed, despite the fact that he attempted to cleverly hide it from his family. But he was better now. He was so sure of it after his father had taken him up to the waterfalls behind the gates of the Golden City. He felt at peace there, and while he wasn't able to completely erase the event from his mind, he was able to evade the panic attacks that lingered.

"I have responsibilities to attend to, Mother," he countered swiftly. 

"You should be well-rested."

"Why do I get the feeling I'm about to be attacked?" T'Challa said, narrowing his eyes despite himself.

Ramonda frowned. "You haven't been sleeping," she stated. "Why?"

He faltered at the question. Why? Well, that was just the million dollar question, wasn't it? Why he has not been able to get a good night's rest when an outsider had attacked and his people? Why couldn't he just forget about the stupid event and move on? Why, why, why?

He swallowed.

"I have to go," he said, his voice not as strong as he wanted it to be. He pulled the blame off of him, and his face warmed when he realized he was completely nude.

His mother respectfully turned her head.

Bast, why couldn't he just get anything right?

Despite the mortification he felt, he rose off the bed, scooping his discarded underwear and he pulled them on hurriedly. His mother turned her head back, her gaze penetrating through his own. Her soft, yet keen eyes stared deep within his brown depths that looked so much like his father's. He did not need to ask if she could see the heavy purple bags hanging underneath his eyes, nor the red that rimmed his eyes pink.

He slipped on a discarded tunic, straightening himself out as he remained stoic. "Mother," he said. "I have matters to attend to."

Ramonda pursed her lips, looking like she wanted to argue. He held his breath still for several moments, the minutes ticking by as he stared back at her, his gaze unreadable. Finally, too long for much comfort, his mother rose off the bed in one quick movement, and reluctantly left his bedroom.

He stared where she had stood just a moment before, until finally he sighed through his nose. He leaned back against the wall next to his headboard, shutting his eyes for a moment.

_Breathe._


	4. The Moon, They Take all the Smiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were all staring at him; dark eyes boring into his own as he clenched and unclenched his fists. He swallowed thickly, refusing to seek for comfort that was meaningless. It happened so long ago. He didn't remember it himself.
> 
> Lies, a voice whispered. You can remember every single touch.
> 
> He breathed through his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. These updates are coming fast. But I can't help it. Studying pales in comparison to this and, well, I'm bored and I feel there's not enough T'Challa whump.
> 
> Also, Unyana means son in Xhosa. Pretty sure. Not really because it came from Google translate.

He ignored the stares he received once he left the comfort of his bedroom. The eyes pierced daggers into his skin, his spine stiffening once he met the eyes of his General.

He gave her a stiff nod, a small smile on his lips.

 _Fake,_ a voice whispered in his ear, laughing. _Fake, fake, fake._

He continued onwards, just really wandering until he remembered what he had planned for today.

He walked past his cousin, who was discussing his War Dog reports with another of their colleagues. N'Jadaka glanced up, nodding. "Hey, T," he greeted.

"N'Jadaka, always a pleasure," T'Challa teased. His cousin smirked, and arched a brow.

"Wish I could say the same for you."

T'Challa snorted with a small roll of his eyes. He shook his head and rounded a corner. He climbed the spiraling staircase that led to the king's chambers.

He excused his guards with a wave of his hand. The three women behind him nodded and left as swiftly as they'd come, leaving him alone in the hall.

The door was blank as the trees of the jungle. The oak gleamed under the sunlight and looked as if it had been freshly glossed with transparent paints.

He smiled, wrapping his hand around the silver knob and entered, closing the door behind him with a soft _click._

He made his way to the private bathroom, opting to use the one from here instead of his bedroom. More privacy for himself.

The attendants had left him a warm bath, the large tub that looked more of a pool frothy with soap suds and salts. He smelled lavender and smiled to himself. He locked the door behind him, and he shed all his clothes.

But when his thumbs hooked over the hem of his boxers...

_("That's it, kitten," a rough, breathy voice whispered, his rough thrusts digging needles into his spine. "That's it. Get hard for me.")_

T'Challa clamped his eyes shut, trying to call his breathing for a moment. His heart was starting to beat too fast for his liking again, and he choked back a whine that warmed his cheeks for days upon weeks.

Finally, after counting to ten once again, he sighed heavily, pulling down his boxers. He caught the flash of a mirror, winking at him from the glint of light that flashed from the sun. He turned his head, looking at his bare form in the mirror. It felt more like deja'vu.

_(He limped down the hallways, his skin burning._

_"T'Challa," a voice boomed behind him. He turned, and his eyes connected with the angry gaze of his father, clad in his Black Panther suit._

_The helmet was off, T'Chaka's lips set in a firm line. "Do you have any idea how worried we were?" he hissed, striding over to T'Challa and T'Challa had to bite back a scream._

_Too close, too close, too close._

_"You are not allow to wander off without your guards," his father continued to rant, glaring. "Do you have any clue as to what this is doing to your—"_

_The lecture is cut off. T'Chaka paused, and furrowed his brows when he finally got a good look at his son. T'Challa had his eyes squeezed shut, trying to block off the memories of...of that American with the weird accent._

_"Unyana?" T'Chaka whispered, his voice softer than previously._

_T'Challa's hand instantly flew to the bruise hidden by the collar of his tunic, and he sniffled despite himself. His face warmed when he realized a fresh bout of tears streamed down his cheeks. "I-I'm sorry, B-Baba—" he choked on the last word, a sob breaking the sentence and his father's eyes became concerned._

_"Leave us," he commanded his Dora Milaje guards, who all nodded and left the two alone._

_T'Chaka wrapped his strong arms around T'Challa's tiny frame, kneeling down to one knee for a less awkward position. T'Challa, despite the protests from, stating he was a man now, clung to his father like a lifeline. He buried his face into Baba's chest, his father's hand cupping the back of his head as the other rubbed his back. T'Challa's whole body wracked with sobs, the tears burning down a path as his father comforted him with soothing words and his lips pressed on the top of his head._

_His father had asked him what happened, but T'Challa could only cry harder._

_And when he went to the bathroom that night, forcing down more sobs when he saw red in his urine, that little boy was not the same when he looked into the mirror.)_

T'Challa blinked out of his reverie, taking in a shaky breath when he had to calm himself once again. He glanced down at himself, unsurprised when he didn't find the nasty bruises that marred his hips, thighs, and neck. His hand hovered over where the bruise used to be on his neck, reminding himself once again that Klaue was gone—

 _Am I really,_ the voice in the back of his head laughed.

—and that he was buried under rubble, died all alone, his puddle of blood pooling behind him like a second shadow.

What would the corpse look like? T'Challa found himself wondering, and he tore his eyes from his reflection, breaking himself out of his musings. He dipped one leg into the water, warm and inviting, and then the other. His hands gripping the edges of the tub, he slowly lowered himself into the warm bath water. A moan of bliss left his lips, and T'Challa closed his eyes in peace as the serenity came.

His muscles relaxed and turned to cooked spaghetti when the rigidness washed away, and he threw his head back.

It was just like for the next few minutes. T'Challa just laid in his own bath water, the scent of lavender and the dull sound of the city the only thing coherent in his mind.

Slowly, a genuine smile graced his lips. The first smiles in day that didn't feel so rehearsed.

Of course, Bast couldn't let that last for far longer.

"Hey, mate," an ungodly, terrifyingly familiar voice greeted.

T'Challa's eyes snapped open, and his head jerked up and his eyes widened. Dread fell into the pit of his stomach.

Leaning over the edge of the tub, his only hand buried into the water, was Ulysses Klaue, a drunk, mad grin to his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> I know. It ain't all that. I tried and that is all I can say. If anyone wishes to, they can adopt this or make some sort of twist of their own. I might make another chapter but I don't know yet.


End file.
